In Control (5 page)

"I've rented the townhouse from him, yes, but I swear"--he made an emphatic stress of the word--"I live with no one. In fact, not wanting to live with anyone is why I left my brother's."

For God's sake, why was she still on the phone with this...this... "Oh?"

"Renting it from Seth was the reason we were talking at the table," he said. "You remember?"

She did. "Hmm."

"It never occurred to me to tell you. Shit, I'm sorry."

"Hmm," she said again.

"I swear, goddess. You and I will be alone. Just you and me. On my life, I swear." That whisky-chocolate voice coaxed at her, pulled at her, caused her resolve to waver. "Just you and me, beautiful. I promise you an experience you'll never forget."

She shivered as his alluring tones tickled every nerve she had. From the tips of her toes to the top of her hair, she could feel his persuasion. But the fear filling her stomach warned her that she trod a path dangerous to her emotional health. Yet, running away didn't seem to be the way to heal. She was no coward.

What was she thinking? She was nuts to still be on the phone with him.

"Okay. I'm on my way."

"I can't wait," he said and ended the call with enough speed she wondered if he was trying to disconnect fast enough to keep her from changing her mind.

It worked. Knowing he awaited her was like a spur to her side.
Ah, God, will this slave training ever leave me?
It would, she told herself, but clearly not today. Things like that took time. Throwing off behavioral conditioning didn't happen overnight. Yes, it had been six months since she'd left Seth's training kennel, but it was obvious she still had work to do.

He was a helluva trainer.

"I'll get over this mental thing," she said, as she navigated the turn-around at the entrance of Seth's familiar and very pricey community. "I won't be like this forever." In fact, her first play date as a dominant was the first step in the right direction. "Today is the first day of the new me."

She'd been saying that a lot lately.

A fortunate turn of events allowed her to find a parking spot near Seth's--no, Zach's--door when another car pulled out and drove away. These were lovely townhouses, but parking was tight since these homes had been shoehorned along the block. And she just didn't feel comfortable enough parking in his empty driveway.

She sat for a moment in car, staring at the townhouse in question and ignoring how the sun beat down on the rooftop. The townhouse stared back at her, all pristine paint, prim shrubbery, and designer-chosen lawn ornaments.

A green-and-white lawn gnome smiled against her glower. An ankle-high white picket fence bracketed a planter full of now pruned flowers. Neat. Orderly. Impersonal. It effectively concealed, from any uptight neighbors, the face and lifestyle of the man who owned it, who happened to be the community's former Slave Master, and who now, appeared to be content cohabitating with his slave. Seth enjoyed a firm place in the community she'd just been booted from, while she sat alone in her car, outside his nice townhouse, sweating in the summer sun.

Was that fair?
No!

Annabel yanked open the door and grinned as the metal-on-metal screech broke the silence of the posh neighborhood. It was as good as a herald of trumpets as far as she was concerned. But the obstinate door resisted efforts to close and lock it. She was forced to slam it three times before it stayed shut. A jiggle of the handle proved it had also obeyed her vitriolic suggestions to remain locked.

Then, and after taking a moment to smooth her hair and compose herself, she hauled her tote over her shoulder, marched up the driveway and took the footpath to the front door...which opened as she approached. Zach lounged in the doorway, wearing blue-gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Shoe and sockless, he stood with a glass of iced-tea in his hand and his two-dimpled smile. He had cute toes.

"Welcome," he said and offered her the glass. "For you."

She accepted, but passed on sipping from it.

"Come in, please." He opened the door wider and stood aside, offering a gentlemanly gesture of one arm. "Welcome."

She sniffed the tea as she stepped over the threshold. She detected the subtle hint of fruit in the blend. No scent of any illicit drugs wafted from her glass, but then, she wasn't a bloodhound.

He shut the door. Something about the way he did that raised the hairs at the nape of her neck. Or was it the way he chuckled...a sound full of the promise of decadent joys. She tried to ease the sudden tension with the punch line of an old joke.

"Said the spider to the fly," she said.

Zach's smile widened.

A new guy in a new environment--disregarding the fact she'd been in this place before--bore some investigation. The life she'd lived before Jeremy had taught her that much.

"I'll be right back," she said. Setting the tea on the hall tree bench, she proceeded to do a little reconnaissance. Did either Seth or Jeremy hide in one of the rooms? She didn't find signs of anyone else in the home, but she did find evidence of a recent move: boxes, loose hangers, bags of clothing.

Things looked to be okay, so she returned to the living room, where Zach waited. He'd crossed his arms over his chest and had propped himself against the fireplace. As she walked back to him, an amused expression flittered across his face.

"Find anything?" he asked.

"Your bathroom is amazingly clean for a bachelor's pad."

He barked a laugh. "Seth has threatened me with surprise inspections of his property."

The warning didn't amuse her. "Take him seriously."

His expression shifted to one of puzzled curiosity. Furrows wrinkled his brows, and the edges of his eyes tightened. She'd tripped his curiosity switch. That wasn't a good thing regarding her past. Some things were better left dead and buried.

Forestalling any questions he might think to ask, she turned to her glass of tea and carried it into the kitchen, where she dumped the contents into the sink. Plucking a fresh glass from the cupboard, she located the pitcher in the fridge and filled it with another serving. She turned to head back into the other room and found Zach standing near the oven.

A startled yelp escaped her at the sight.

She hadn't heard him move.

Shouldn't she have heard him limp?

His gaze traveled between her and the fridge, lingering a moment on the glass in her hand. "I used supermarket brand peach-and-green tea. I didn't use roofies."

She felt her cheeks warm. Thankfully, her makeup would conceal any sign of a blush. Her Domina persona remained in play. Better use it, she told herself and crossed the patterned tiles, ensuring each step she took was one of measured control and precision. He didn't drop his eyes from hers. She didn't catch a glimpse of any challenge, just a steady watchfulness.

She intentionally stopped inside his personal bubble and raised the glass to his face.

"No roofies? Really?"

"No, ma'am," he answered.

"Then drink."

He didn't hesitate when she tipped the glass toward his lips. She watched as his head tilted back, watched the strong column of his throat work as he swallowed, and watched a drop of tea slip from one side of his mouth and wander down his chin. The urge to lick it from his tanned skin slammed into her like a fist to the stomach.

She gasped from the shock and yanked the glass from his mouth. He sputtered and choked, obviously surprised. Tea splashed onto his T-shirt, dampening it.

"Oh God, I'm sorry--" She bit off the apology. Dominas didn't apologize, right? They do things like take the glass away and maybe even deliberately spill it. Control, right?

"No harm done," he said, appearing oblivious to her struggle for composure. He turned while swiping a muscled arm across his dampened chin, blotting the stray moisture from his skin, and walked out. "Let's get out of the kitchen. I have the other room set up."

She followed, cursing herself for an ass for doing so. Dominas didn't follow. They led.
Brazen it out.
"So far, I'm not impressed with your service."

"I'm sorry, goddess." He stopped by a closed door and opened it. A spare bedroom opened up before her. "I'm only eagerly anticipating you"--a cough interrupted him, probably the remnants of the tea tickling his throat--"getting your hands on me."

Taking a long pull from the iced tea glass, she deliberately made him wait for her. The delicate flush of peach filled her mouth in a welcome way on this hot, muggy summer day. She scratched one side of her burgundy-painted mouth and swept the interior of the room with a critical gaze.

A spare bed, double-sized, filled one corner and wore black and gold linens of an Egyptian design. A writing desk stood against the far wall. A line of crops and floggers marched across the desk face until they fetched up against a reading lamp. The wide leather belt caught and snared her attention, and she jerked her attention away from it. A large wooden wardrobe occupied the remaining wall. One door was ajar, allowing her to see other bondage equipment hanging inside. A simple wooden kitchen chair with arms stood in the middle of the room.

"Your throne," he murmured.

His breath stirred the hair beside her ear. His scent filled the air, something earthy and wholly male. She shivered as it closed around her, but didn't leave the doorway. Instead, she took another drink of the tea.

Was she hesitating?
Yes, I am. Why?

The truth was this wasn't her thing. She had little desire to cause a man to grovel at her feet. It did nothing for her. She preferred a strong man, one who could--and would--take charge; someone who had the strength to enforce his wishes inside and outside of the bedroom; a formidable potency of will; someone she could rely on.

But she was here, and it wouldn't ever be said she'd backed down from anything. And maybe this was the change she needed. Who knew? She stepped over the threshold and entered the room. Something shivered up her spine. A herald, she told herself. She'd just made a huge change in her life, and her soul recognized the monumental shift.

Right?

She heard him move behind her and turned, finding him in the process of shutting the door. "Leave it open."

He did as instructed and gave a smile full of dimples and mischief. His delightful gray eyes offered an impish sparkle. "I'm so hungry for this," he confessed.

She stifled a sigh. The new me, she reminded herself.

"Then let's get to it." She crossed the room and made herself comfortable on the so-called-throne. The purple blanket, folded into a chair cushion, did not go unnoticed. Purple. The color used by royalty. She thought back to the times she'd been locked in a kennel for hours and laughed at by certain loathsome slaves.
Yeah. Purple. That's me, bitches. Royalty.

"Okay, I want to see what I'm dealing with." She set the glass of tea on the nearby desk and affected a queenly air by propping her elbows on the armrests and positioning her fingers into a triangle in front of her chest. She crossed her legs, the leather of her pants whispering with her movements. "Undress."

For a moment, he didn't move, then he shifted into the middle of the room and tugged his T-shirt over his head.

The whisper of plastic brought a hard shiver, her breath stalling in her throat at the sound. Then the shirt fell to the floor, revealing a landscape of masculine beauty--ripped abs, a powerful chest dusted with golden-brown hair that flaunted military-issue dog tags, and a tattoo of the Marine bulldog on his right deltoid.

Jeremy hadn't lied. Zach had. She'd been played.

Annabel leapt for the door.

Zach lunged to intercept. Pain flashed up his damned leg, but he managed to catch Annabel. His arms wrapped her and she cried out, making a sharp twist move that would have freed her had she been struggling with a common street fighter, which he wasn't thanks to the USMC.
Score one for combat training
.

He yanked her off her feet and against his chest. She kicked her legs and spat and fought, doing nothing but knocking them both to the floor. The impact didn't loosen his hold. He'd been trained to withstand impacts that carried significantly more force.
Score two for combat training
.

He rolled her onto her back, dodged a fist to his face, and pinned her beneath his weight. "Where you going, babe? You're leaving? Already? The play date just got started."

She gave a catlike hiss, "Let me go."

Victory surged through him. Sure, this wasn't the type of combat he was used to, but it gratified him anyway. It wasn't life or death, but-- He dodged her sharply rising knee. Well, maybe it was life or death for his nuts.

"I'll scream," she threatened.

He roared his amusement into her face. The rage that filled her expression flickered with something that resembled fear. Was the ball-busting Annabel afraid? He blew off the thought.
Oh, bullshit
. She knew the rules of their lifestyle. Consensual non-consent wasn't on the menu. She wasn't in any danger of anything more than some embarrassment for playing his brother so badly.

And, shit, Jeremy once had a lot of money. Now it was gone. Where had she spent it all? Intel from his brother and Seth told him right now she bunked at a friend's house in poverty. Maybe she couldn't get to the money at this moment. Mutual funds? Stocks and bonds tied up in commodity brokering? Questions for later, he decided.

"Screaming and crying...a girl's defense. Typical"--he gave a snort of contempt--"and surprisingly weak considering your attempt to play Femdom."

The look of shame that crossed her expression stopped his laughter in mid-chuckle. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred a warning, but since he wasn't in the hills of Afghanistan, he shrugged it away and used his weight and his skill to roll her onto her stomach, thwarting her punches and kicks.

Fuck, she was as skinny. Didn't her roommate have any food?

"I don't give consent," she screeched. "I'm saying 'no.' Release me, or I'll have you arrested for date rape."